


Never Tear Us Apart

by alyxpoe



Series: Snippets of Inspiration for Fanfic [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fantasy AU, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mage, Magic, Romance, dragons and hedgehogs and magic oh my, fairytale, men kissing, some more fantasy fluff, spells, starting to think I need to join a support group
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-15 03:44:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson, a healer, and Sherlock Holmes, a mage, find out that not everyone agrees with their relationship. A fantasy AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Your Precious Heart

**Chapter One: Your Precious Heart**

**C** harcoal-Grey smoke meanders through the small house in wafting clouds. The rockwork around the fire pit is daubed with black soot, yet the fire below still dances merrily in flashes of dark and light as if it is unaware of the carbon tracks it emits. A man dressed in plain brown robes is stirring something in a large pot hanging in the center of the fire, the long wooden spoon in his hand crafted by himself for just this purpose. Save for a few bats hanging amidst drying boughs from the wooden rafters of his two-room cottage, right now he is alone.

The man shuffles some on the uneven wooden flooring, the supple soles of his worn leather boots barely making a sound as he crosses the room to where a large chest rests near the door. He flips it open and pulls out a large vermillion hand-woven blanket; this gets carried over and spread out on the floor in front of the fire. After seeing that the blanket is exactly where he needs it to be, he unhooks the cooking pot from its stand and maneuvers it over towards a bench on the wall to the left of the fireplace, then ladles himself out a bowl of the stew. He grabs a hunk from the fresh loaf of bread next to the pot, a smaller, more ornately carved spoon, and finally settles down cross-legged on the blanket with his supper and eats slowly, savoring each bite as the orange flames flicker and waltz. His cerulean eyes take in the dance before him and he almost seems to be reading a story in the flames.

He empties his bowl and returns it to the bench next to the pot then checks to be sure the second bowl and spoon laid out there are clean. The man nods to himself and pulls at the sash around his middle to loosen the knot that holds his robes closed. They fall freely open, showcasing the golden trail that winds down his firm stomach to end in a thatch of wheat-colored curls between his legs; a fine pelt just a shade lighter than the that on his head. Except for the thin braid that hangs between his shoulders, the man’s hair is cut sharply over his ears and across the nape of his neck. He scratches at his belly and stretches then relaxes back against the blanket, pulling and pinching until he has made an oval-shaped nest out of the soft material.

With a sigh, the man closes his eyes and promptly turns into a hedgehog.

The little mammal gives one last squeak before burrowing into the blanket. Sleep comes quickly thanks to his full belly, his soft blanket and the warmth of the fire.

Outside the tiny cottage, darkness falls complete and the unguarded forest comes to life. Sky-kissing, ancient trees surround the man’s home and animals move amongst them either in silence or with only the faintest hint of their passing. Wolves, foxes, griffins and wyrms cross back and forth around the place, yet none dare hunt there.

From the inky depths of the forest something large passes through the trees to stand at the door of the tiny house. Red scales gleam against the velvet night, seemingly lit from within. The sound of enormous lungs breathing in and out make an inquisitive field mouse scamper out of sight as it accidentally runs between the massive creature’s front legs that are tipped in pure-white claws the length of carving knives. The dragon lashes its tail but otherwise seems to ignore the rodent.

A faint glow begins on the creature’s back and then it simply disappears, replaced by the shape of a tall, lean human male. This man is much taller than the man in the brown robes and at this moment, the precious seconds after his transformation, is completely naked; except for a fringe over his eyes, the hair on his head is cropped close to his skull yet it does not hide the smooth waves of curl to be found there. His skin is pale and only faintly dusted with auburn hair and then only on his lower arms and legs. Old scars crisscross his back.

He raises a fist to the door and instead of knocking, draws an arcane symbol in the darkness. For an instant a tiny golden orb appears, lighting up the ivy that clings to the stone cottage like a lover clings to the heart of his soul mate. The man speaks a single word. Several of the nocturnal denizens of the woods crowd close so that they might hear that word spoken in the hypnotically plummy, plush voice of the one who may wield it as a weapon or a blessing: “ _Apoc_.”

A hush falls over the forest surrounding the tiny cottage, almost as if it is holding its breath; the wooden door swings open to admit the man who has to duck his head to pass over the threshold. It returns to its former state of being as he steps through and again raises his hand.

“ _Ceran_.” The mage’s tone melds easily with its environment, almost a whisper: gone in a single exhale.

In the still cottage, he finds the blanket on the floor near the fire after pulling on a set of black velvet robes from a hook that hangs on the wall over the long, light bow that rests against the wall. Pale jade eyes take in the empty stew bowls, one used, one clean; the fresh bread, the stew and the dying fire before he reaches down and pulls back a corner of the blanket. The little wheaten-furred and white-spiked hedgehog is curled in a tight ball, fast asleep, completely oblivious to whether the man is friend or foe.

After carefully extracting him from his nest, then pulling the blanket up from the floor, he gently cradles the creature in hands so broad the hedgehog is virtually invisible as he carries him to the only other room in the cottage. A narrow bed stands in the corner, covered by a threadbare sheet and a single feather pillow. Everything is old but clean and serviceable. One single shelf hangs on the wall above the bed; several hand-bound tomes rest against each other there.

In no time at all, the man relaxes against the straw-stuffed mattress, lying on his side and arched around the hedgehog, long, black robes hanging over the edge of the bed; pale bare feet almost hang off the end of it. His body feels heavy, unwieldy; as it always does when he returns to his human form at the end of a long day. It bothers him sometimes that he prefers the powerful body of the dragon to this often-weak, slow-reacting, sentimentally-drenched shape.

The hedgehog, for his part, never awakens, yet still manages to inch over nearer his companion’s warm body until his tiny one is very nearly nestled in the space between the man’s collar and his heart, right beneath where his head rests on the pillow. One ebony curl falls over the man’s forehead and one little paw snags it on wee claws. Now the mage counts the tiny creature’s respirations and his own body responds in kind. As the last remaining crickets of the season offer up their hymns to the universe, the moon begins to rise, the companions sleep in the safety of their mutual existence and a comfortable silence envelopes them as they rest.

In the darkest hour before dawn, the raven-haired man awakens to the soft sigh of his companion. He opens his eyes and looks directly into soft blue ones peering deep into his soul. They waste no time, their bodies drawn together as surely as their hearts ever were. The blonde man grasps and pulls his taller companion as close as he is able while at the same time tugging off the black velvet robes.

“Sherlock,” he whispers against his partner’s neck as he kneads the base of the taller man’s spine with his fingertips. John wants to say so many things, to tell his brilliant, beautiful mage how he aches for him throughout the long days but it is difficult to talk when your tongue is busy re-tracing the satisfying definition of perfect lips.

Sherlock arches his back and worms his way out of his robes as he is pulled up and onto the other man’s chest. “John.” His own voice is pitched even deeper from disuse but John hears the depth of sentiment in it nonetheless.

John rolls his hips so that their now-straining erections brush up against one another and soon they fall into each others’ mouths and bodies with abandon: they have absolutely nothing to lose. He pulls Sherlock down against him, forcing the taller man’s hands to grip his biceps rather than allow him to use them for balance. The days are miserable, the nights almost bearable, but this one hour they get between the pitch black of night and the crystalline dawn makes their suffering fall by the wayside for a while and they revel in the soft touches, sighing moans, and declarations of undying adoration. Even at this intimate distance, they cannot get close _enough_.

Too soon, it is over. For a quiet few moments they keep their bodies tucked against one another until the very moment Sherlock begins to tremble. He rolls his long legs out of the bed, pale skin already flushing with crimson as it pulls over slowly convulsing muscle and sinew. Pain is a lost memory. He makes his way towards the door backwards so he can watch every move his lover makes. John follows, holding his hands. Sherlock hangs his head and stops, his back against the ancient wood.

John reaches up, places his fingers under Sherlock’s chin and pushes upward so that he can look into those otherworldly green eyes, the rich color shot through with lines of gold, round pupils already changing to the near-diamond shape that they will be until night falls upon their world again.

“Look at me.” John states in a voice made calm through years of practice. Most days it is not like this, only sometimes; and it is then that he proves his strength, his undying hope, and his loyalty, over and over again.

Sherlock looks. “I’m sorry,” he says and grabs John’s shoulders, reeling the shorter man in against his body in a tight embrace. He nuzzles the top of John’s head, his cheeks already beginning to burn. “I am so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, my love.” John speaks against Sherlock’s collar bone and soothingly runs his hands down Sherlock’s bare spine, his fingers indulging in the unusual feel of the scales already coming through otherwise smooth skin. “It is I who should be regretful.”

Sherlock shakes his head emphatically against the side of John’s face. A single tear slowly drifts down his cheek. Somewhere beyond the door a woodpecker drums against a hollow tree and a falcon cries its morning prayers.

It is time.

One last, lingering kiss and Sherlock opens the door. He steps over the threshold in his naked, trembling form and in an instant he is turning away; long, scaled tail already twitching about the ground at his feet, glossy ebony horns curling at his temples. The pain of this change is so familiar that it no longer registers, until he catches a glimpse of John’s adoring expression and then the sting of it rocks him so hard that he falls to his knees. He hangs his head and lets his hands drop to the ground, effectively baring his neck to the ax of an executioner that does not exist, will never exist.

“Kill me John and end this now. I can’t go on like this.”

On the threshold of their home, John opens his arms. “Only if you allow me to die with you.”

As they always do, the words are a buffer to Sherlock’s almost impenetrable misery. He takes a deep breath and leans forward, the lines of his body melding into that of the gigantic red dragon. Without another glance but a nod of the great horned head, he moves into the dappled daylight of the thick forest, knowing that for one more day his lover is safe from danger only because they are forced by this strange biology to be apart.

John watches him until the dragon is completely invisible, stands there even longer still after he hears the scream of the animal when its wings finally unfurl and it launches itself above the trees. The parting is always the greatest of his sorrows and he regrets falling asleep last night before Sherlock returned to the cottage. One of his greatest joys is hearing the mage order the door to open in his bottomless voice.

Their lives have not always been so disrupted. As John begins his daily chore routine that includes cleaning Sherlock’s robes and weeding his small garden, memories come and go as images do when one has nothing else much to think about day in and day out. John is content to spend his time alone, only occasionally venturing into town for sundries he cannot produce himself in some way. A few of the locals still consider themselves his friends, but he seldom sees them anymore. He pulled in his shingle long ago, because the pain of being unable to protect the one person who means more to him than his own life was enough to crush him and make him wish for death. John recognizes, in many ways, that this half-life that is still filled with love is the better alternative to facing a lonely emptiness for eternity.

John frowns at his carrots and cabbages, scratches the back of his neck with a hand then rolls his braid between his fingers. Sherlock did not eat last night, something that seems to be getting worse the longer he is forced to remain in the dragon’s body. His eyes fall on the domed bee houses at the end of the garden. Perhaps he can mix up something sweet today that will entice the mage to take even a small portion of it later tonight.


	2. Two Worlds Collide

**Chapter Two: Two Worlds Collide**

_John putters about his garden, thinking about life in general. He gathers fresh honey from the bee houses and busies himself by setting the semi-liquid amber into a large wooden bowl made by his own hands. He gently pries off a chunk of the comb as the wax is wonderful for making candles as well as a little snack. Popping a piece into his mouth, he begins cleaning the wooden frame with water. As he works, he reminisces, turning over memories in his head and examining them anew._

*

“John!” Sherlock walks so quickly that he glides over the young grass around the side of the cottage, heavy black velvet material whispering against the tops of his boots as he strides towards the garden. The sun overhead glints off the gold and silver embroidery that embellishes the sleeves and hood of his midnight robes.

John stands from where he is kneeling down weeding around one of the succulents he grows to cool fevers and wipes his hands on his brown trousers. His cream-colored tunic hangs open over his chest, allowing his skin to soak in the rays of the sun as he works. As a combined result of his time in the garden every spring and summer, his skin is tanned to what his lover refers to as ‘nut brown.’ He waves at the mage. “Over here.”

Sherlock speaks as he winds his way through the neat rows of plants. “Obviously, John, I could see you clearly from the edge of the house. I need your particular brand of expertise as I have come across someone injured in the forest. I remembered what you told me about not moving an injured person and so I left her there, however, she is bleeding and I thought you would be useful.”

John raises an eyebrow as Sherlock effortlessly draws closer, his expression one of exasperation as his favorite motor mouth comes to a dead stop in front of him, completely pulling his attention away from the succulent and blocking the sun at the same time. Sherlock smirks down at him, the corners of the mage’s mouth pulling up. The kiss between them is welcome, an acknowledgment of those things they feel but generally let go unsaid.

“So I am to be useful, am I?” John swats at the mage, shooing him away from where he's casting his shadow on the plant.

“Oh come now, John, you are always useful to me.” Sherlock casually runs his index finger down John’s arm from shoulder to wrist. John shivers a little and licks his lips.

“Indeed.” The healer steps back to get some breathing room between them. If someone needs help, he is pretty much all the help they are going to get between here and Nodnol Town.

Sherlock cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “Unless you can think of a better use of our time?” Playfully, he rests his hands on his hips.

Two can play at this game. John moves in close, runs his fingers over the braided gold belt that he gifted to his lover two summers past. The material is warm from Sherlock’s body heat. John rolls on the balls of his feet, his fingers dipping down towards the buckle, thoroughly enjoying the way the mage’s green irises are now virtually swallowed by his pupils. He reaches down slowly, teasingly towards the place he knows Sherlock would love his hand to be right about now…

John grabs the leather pouch that is loosely tied to hang at the mage’s side, then spins on his bare heels and bolts from the garden, jumping over every other row of plants and vegetables as he races back towards the cottage. The pouch bounces in the air where he holds it like a spoil of victory.

For a split second, Sherlock is caught off guard. He growls a challenge and follows John, not at a run, but a ground-eating, gliding walk.

It is the gait that John refers to as the Sulk Walk.

When he finally catches up with his lover, John is washing his hands in the simple gear-driven basin designed by Sherlock to allow the water to run freely from a spigot placed in the rocks. Before he met John, he did not quite understand much about medicine, now he knows more and he clearly comprehends the need for _cleanliness_. John is still chuckling as he washes then carefully dries his hands.

“My pouch, John.” Sherlock states, gesturing towards John’s tunic where the bulge of the pouch is obvious from where John has it affixed it to his belt underneath.

John just laughs. “Take me to your injured party and I’ll see about letting you have your little trinkets back.” He leans down to grab the handle of his leather satchel after sliding his brown robes over his arms; his braid gets caught in the neckline and Sherlock reaches out and flips it back, staring intently at John the entire time.

“Trinkets?” Sherlock’s nostrils flare and his green eyes flash until John grins up at him, then he pretty much deflates and smiles back. It is an on-going game that they both thoroughly enjoy. With a nod, Sherlock moves around to the door to retrieve his bow and arrows. In minutes they are on their way through the forest, John trailing a pace behind Sherlock’s lead.

The ground starts out level and steadily begins to slope as they pass through the trees; the crunch of dried pine needles soon gives way to the thud of boot heels on the harder-packed earth of a well-worn trail. Finally, Sherlock stops and steps out of the way so that John can see down the hill to where a human shape is lying on its back, its legs in the small stream.

The trail ends abruptly in the water and the sides of the hill are strewn with rocks and pebbles. The person lying at the bottom of the crevice seems to have fallen victim to a recent landslide from the early melt-off of ice as the spring warm-up began early this year.

John pulls a small bundle of rope from his satchel. “Help me down.”

Sherlock ignores the rope in favor of grabbing his pouch off of John’s belt. John turns towards him, his eyes wide. “No, Sherl…”

It’s too late by then, because he is already drifting slowly through mid-air down towards the figure. He lands heavily on his feet, his robe settling on his shoulders. In an instant, Sherlock lands softly beside him on the toe of his left boot as if the spell is no more amazing than breathing; the other foot gently touches the ground soon after with all the force of a chaste kiss.

“We’ll talk about this later,” John growls as he drops to his knees beside the woman on the ground. “Get her legs out of the water.”

Sherlock obeys but when he touches her, she screams in pain and sits up fast. Her breathing is hard and ragged, her brown eyes wide from the shock of the blood rushing to her brain. Sherlock steps out of the water and behind John.

“It’s alright, I am John; I am a healer. Can you tell me what’s happened to you?” John asks as he takes in the fresh cut along the woman’s cheekbone, the red blood contrasting strongly with her dusky skin. He extends his hand to brush some dirt out of it and she pulls back, almost hissing between her teeth.

“You flew.” She states, her eyes still wild, hands held out directly in front of her as if to ward off evil.

“Not really,” Sherlock informs her. “More like falling gracefully.”

John nods, laying his hands on his thighs. “He’s right, humans don’t fly.”

“But you did, I…I saw it.” The woman is shaking now and pulling at her hair distractedly with one hand.

John gently takes her hand and starts rubbing the back of it with his fingers. Her eyes fall from his face to her hand and she tries again to pull away, but this time his grasp is firm. “Tell us what happened to you so we can get you back on your feet.” His voice is kind but allows no argument.

With her other hand, she points up at Sherlock. “Mages no longer exist. We were _told_.”

John tilts his head a little up at his partner, but keeps on stroking the woman’s hand.

Sherlock’s eyes rove over the injured woman, from the top of her head to where her feet still drag in the water of the slow-moving stream, taking in the stained blouse and long black skirt tangled around her legs. Through the water it appears her feet are bare. He clasps his hands behind his back and leans in towards her a little. “Lady, I assure you that they very well do.”

“Could you hand me the purple flower in my satchel, Sherlock?” John asks quietly from the ground. Sherlock takes one step backward and retrieves the bag, hands the healer the requested item.

Under the woman’s watchful but terrified gaze, John slowly crushes the petal of the flower in his hand until it becomes a white paste between his fingers. He continues to stroke the back of the woman’s hand and she finally relaxes and then falls asleep; he lays her hand down carefully against her belly and stands.

“Don’t get smug, I need you to _fly_ us home.” John gestures towards the woman’s legs, and the way the water around them is stained pink. “I’m unsure as to what type of injury that could be and I’d rather not take the chance of her bleeding out when you can just…” he trails off, moving his hand back and forth between them and then hanging his satchel on his shoulder before he bends down and takes the woman into his arms.

Sherlock nods, takes a pinch of stuff from his pouch and then chants under his breath. In seconds the forest is flying by beneath them.

*

When the injured woman finally comes to, she finds herself in a make-shift bed near a low-burning hearth. She still wears her clothes, but with the addition of a tight wrap around her leg that she carefully examines with her fingertips. From what tiny bit she knows, it is professionally done. Well, she thinks, as professional as any _healer_ could be.

The woman then turns her attention to the rest of the room where what she is sure are beeswax candles have been set out on practically every surface. She sniffs, taking in the smell of unfamiliar incense burning. Just beyond the flicker of the candles’ flames, she can see shadows moving about. There are no windows here, so her sense of time of day is skewed.

It all adds up very quickly for her: the candles, the incense, the _healer_. “Oh no.” She mumbles in a hiss. “Magickers.” Her heart begins to pound as she desperately tries to find the exit, to get out of here and away from them. Banu will be so disappointed in her! She cannot even pass to the other side correctly. She failed the only test her god has ever given her, and managed to fall into the hands of a pair of Magickers as well.

In the midst of her fear and worry, she has not noticed that the wheaten-haired man who called himself ‘John’ has almost silently gotten closer to her. When he speaks she tries to decide to ignore what he _is_ for what he has _done._

“You brought me here.” She states as she eyes him warily.

“Yes, we did.” John nods as he lifts her hand and gently takes her pulse. He is kneeling beside her, but only touching her wrist.

She tries to pull away and does so when he lets go, pulling the gray blanket up to her chin. “I should not be here.” Her eyes slip closed and she begs for forgiveness in her mind.

John cocks his head, his expression curious. In his ear, he hears the word _Bamine_ and groans softly under his breath. Of all the people Sherlock could come across and decide to help, why in the world would it be a follower of the new god Banu? He rocks back on his heels and runs a hand over his face, unsure of how to deal with this situation without making this injured woman hurt her person even further; he fears this could very quickly get out of control. John takes a deep breath and thinks that he might as well start with something reasonable.

“Honestly, I would like to get you back to where you belong as soon as I can, but I need a little information from you first. What is your name?”

The woman looks like she is going to try for the door at any second now, so John steps back to prove to her that she is no prisoner; even going so far as to hold his arm out in the right direction. She looks from him to the door and back, tries to stand up and all of the fight dissipates right out of her so that she slumps on the floor, her head bowed; everything about her posture shouting: _I give up_.

John does not understand any part of her reaction, as he is unfamiliar with the majority of the teachings of Banu, so he backs away a few paces and sits down where the light of the candles will make his every expression very clear to her. He tries very hard to appear completely non-threatening.

When the woman finally looks back up at him and not at the floor, her eyes flash over his neatly-trimmed hair and then to the thin braid that has caught on a fiber of his tunic over his shoulder. The end is tied with a thin piece of leather and the hair has been burned at the end of it. For a few seconds, she allows herself to marvel at hands that can do such delicate work. _Banu, forgive me,_ she says to herself.

“I’m sorry?” John asks.

She shakes her head and decides to trust him, for the moment, since the other man does not seem to be around. “My name is Sally.”

“Well, Sally, it is nice to meet you.” John fights his natural urge to move closer, perhaps even clasp hands as is normally considered polite when meeting a new person. “I am not trying to be forward, but I am curious as to how you ended up in the stream and what happened to your leg.”

Sally frowns, trying hard to remember. “I fell down the ravine when I was out searching for the little blue berries that grow on the east side of the forest; I think I cut my leg on some rocks on the way down.”

“How were you planning on getting help?” John’s expression is open, curious; inside, however, he fears the answer. Even though Sherlock is not in the house, John is very much aware of the mage’s presence warning him to tread lightly with this woman now that her belief system has been revealed.

Sally looks him dead in the eye and says clearly, “I had no plans on getting help. I knew then that I had been _called_ and I was ready to go.” Tears form in the corners of her eyes. “You messed it all up.”

“How?” John queries, his voice still calm.

“By bringing me here! You brought me to a house of Magick---I know that tall one, he’s a…a MAGE! How can that _even_ be? What are your plans for me? You want my body?” Sally struggles to her knees and begins tearing at her plain blouse. “You can have it!” She shouts. “But my heart already belongs to Banu!”

 _For all the light and peace in the world_. John jumps to his feet to move as far away from the woman as he can possibly get, exasperated; he can think of absolutely nothing to do to stop her from screaming and crying in this manner. He walks to the chest next to the door and begins digging through it as the front door opens.

Sherlock freezes on the spot and his head turns from the hysterical woman in the floor next to the fire to John, who looks like a wyvern without a tunnel. “What is this, _m’omay_?”

John shrugs and gives up on his search. Holding up both hands, he answers, “I asked her about her injury and then, pretty much…this.” John gestures towards the woman. “She cannot stand on that leg yet, and I’m hesitant to give her anything else.”

Sherlock says nothing, but cocks an eyebrow to let his lover know he understood the _anything else_.

John moves forward and calls out to Sally. “Sally, Sherlock and I are going outside for a few moments. If you could please collect yourself, perhaps we can work together to find you a way back home.”

“I have no home!” She screeches, tearing at her hair.

John turns wide eyes towards Sherlock who steps backwards out the door, catching John’s hands as he does so.

*

_John comes to as the late afternoon is slowly turning to dusk, half-amused at himself for getting so caught up in his memories. Sherlock has always looked so wonderful to him, even now. John feels in his heart that they will be able to eventually break this spell; sadly, it will probably not be today. He goes through the motions of cooking and eating his small supper, happily leaving a plate of honeyed biscuits on the bench beside the remainder of the pot of stew._

_John pulls a quill from a tiny ink well that he keeps above the hearth and scratches out a quick note that Sherlock should wake him if he is asleep when the mage returns to the cottage for the night. He checks that the fire is burning low; as the days have been steadily growing warmer, there is no reason to use up more wood than necessary._

_Soon, the hedgehog is curled into a ball in the folds of the vermillion blanket, fighting sleep and wishing there was a way to explain away the need to go over these memories in his mind. On some level, he is aware that this tiny ember of Hope stems from how wretched Sherlock looked that morning, begging for death even as his body was changing into a more powerful, more intelligent, more long-lasting creature._

_The idea that the mage would give that much power up to be with John forever in darkness spurs him on to find a way to break the curse.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apoc- Open  
> Ceran- Close  
> M'omay- my love, or my lover


	3. We Could Live

**Chapter 3: We Could Live**

_The great red dragon stills his wings and allows his body to glide on the thermals above the forest that he claimed in the early days of this wretched curse. He scans the ground for prey, something to take to John that he will cook for the next day’s meal. It is strange to him how often his thoughts turn to what his life was like before John: whiling away those lonely days after his Master had died: spending long hours with the potions…even before that, though, when he was young and he saw too much. It only took telling the open truth to the king’s son about his wife and her long-standing affair with the stable boy to get him cast out of town for good. The day he stumbled upon a golden-haired healer with a limp was the day he realized that life was still worth living._

_Even after they became lovers, they remained friends._

_The dragon spots a particularly juicy morsel and dives towards it, carefully opening his mouth to pluck the brown hare right off the ground. He applies enough pressure to snap its neck and it does not struggle and it takes no time at all to land near the cottage and drop it off at the door. The dragon holds for a moment, hoping for a quick glance of John, but the other man is nowhere in sight, even though his scent is everywhere. As he vaults back into the air, he begins to wonder if he regrets as deeply as it seems to John the day that he called the healer to the injured woman’s side. In some ways, his new form offers him power and a chance to be above the ordinary…on the other claw, however, he had always craved a bit of the ordinary, which is why it seemed that the universe itself came to a complete halt the day he met John Watson._

*

The arrow flies through the air to smack against its intended target, a gnarled old tree, with a _thunk_. It sounds so good that Sherlock lets go another one and another after that, until there’s a shape made of arrow shafts. He smirks to himself and decides to leave them, since he is as bored today as he has ever been in his twenty-one years of life. After two days of listening to Sherlock monologue about his most recent discoveries, John had pushed him out the door with his bow and told him to find something constructive to do.

How in the world is supposed to do that when all of his things are back at the cottage? He drops down out of the tree he’s been hiding out in and lands on his feet, bending his knees slightly to withstand the impact. Sherlock starts off down the trail and yanks his black robes from the shrubs he had thrown them over to dry because he is not yet ready to explain to John that they were wet because he had to wash them in the stream because Nora Krate caught him sneaking around her back garden looking for proof to substantiate his hunch that her husband had not _disappeared_ at all. He snorts. Magickers are always getting blamed for things they have no part in—not even a little. There are only three houses on that lonely road between the cottage and Nodol Town, and neither of the other neighbors ever saw any trace of Mr. Krate during any of the time period Mrs. Krate claims that they were arguing and she kicked him out. It is so obvious that she killed the man and buried his body underneath her compost pile.

Well, obvious to him, anyway; John will believe him, too. He always does. The healer is a good man but no fool when it comes to human nature. That thought reminds Sherlock that he meant to check to see where the followers of the new god, Banu, are going to be camping out. He does not much like anyone hanging out in the forest near his and John’s cottage, though he has never been able to put his finger on the exact reason.

Sherlock moves through the dense foliage of the northeastern section of the woods practically in silence, his fingers rubbing a tiny talisman in the pouch he wears on the gold belt over his robes. The talisman only adds to his natural inclination to sneak through the forest quietly, covering any snap of a twig or accidental stumble, it does not make him invisible.

He has reached the lip of a ravine that has been cut through the land as the stream at the bottom of it has alternately grown and shrunk back over time. Movement at the bottom of it catches his eye and he stands for a moment, gazing down towards the water. Sherlock can make out a human shape; he crouches down, trying for a better look. What appears to be a woman is rolling sideways down the ravine, her long black skirt wrapping around her legs. She is making no move to stop herself nor is she crying out for help.

Sherlock considers several options, chooses the best one from among them, and congratulates himself on taking the _helpful_ option as he reaches into his pouch. In no time at all he is landing lightly next to the cottage and striding out towards the garden where he knows John will be at this hour.

*

Later that night, Sherlock leaves John alone with the woman as he has a new reason to find that _Bamine_ encampment that he now knows must be very close. Questions run through his mind, forefront among them: why are none of her peers searching for her? He’s got that feeling again, the one that tells him there is more to the story than what is at first apparent.

Sherlock finally stumbles upon the campsite, and, at first it appears deserted. Soon, his clever eyes take in the dim pinpoints of candle flame and he is able to count the tents. There are seven of them, very plainly made, and it seems that the people are paired up…no, wait a minute. There is a larger tent in the center of the others, this one a little larger and a little fancier. He counts at least thirteen adults and possibly seven or eight children and wishes he could get close enough to see their faces.

He moves closer to the encampment, talisman between his fingers, in order to get a better look at the place. In front of the largest tent are three rows of benches that all face a tall, golden statute. Apparently the god Banu looks like an old man with a paunch wearing plain robes; it seems the god also smokes a pipe, which his right hand is curled around. His left hand is palm up, outstretched towards the benches in a gesture that could not be more begging if a sign was hanging on it. A sweet-sour odor hangs about, getting stronger the closer he gets to the large tent.

Interesting that.

Sherlock makes his way home speedily and comes in to find John exasperated and the woman on the floor screaming at the top of her lungs about her heart belonging to the new god. He pulls John outside and closes the door on the horrible racket.

“John, I found them.” Sherlock says as he wraps his arms around his lover.

John leans into him, closes his eyes for a moment and takes in the woodsy scent of the mage. For the first time in hours he allows himself to relax. “Her people?”

Sherlock nods and presses a kiss to the top of John’s head. “Tomorrow we will see if we can get her back to them, then we can be done with the whole thing.”

John pulls back to look up into Sherlock’s face. The mage’s expression is tight, closed off. John does not like it. “Sherlock, what aren’t you telling me?”

Sherlock mulls it over. He is about to explain to John just the overall feeling of ‘wrongness’ elicited by the camp but is interrupted by a loud crash from inside the cottage. Together, they turn and go back in to find that Sally has again attempted to stand up and is now lying on her back in the middle of the floor, bad leg twisted up underneath her.

John picks her up gently and rests her back on the camp bed he made out of some extra blankets and pillows. She is out cold so he pulls back one of her eyelids for Sherlock to see that her pupils are virtually non-existent. Sherlock nods again and follows John to the bedroom, where he pulls the door closed behind them and drops the lock into place.

“I do believe we are thinking the same thing.” John states as he removes his robes before settling on the side of the mattress.

Sherlock nods, steps out of his own robes and clothing in order to stretch out at John’s side, completely naked. “Yes.”

John turns around and moves up towards the head of the bed; Sherlock follows him to rest his head on John’s thigh. The healer runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, dragging his fingernails across the mage’s scalp as he goes. Sherlock mumbles a little and practically purrs.

“I wish I weren’t so exhausted tonight.” John sighs.

Sherlock just snorts and stretches out on his belly, basking in the attention.

“What type of thing are they doing to these followers, Sherlock?” John wonders aloud.

Sherlock pushes himself up on his hands and the peace is broken. “I intend to find out.” He crosses his legs and moves up beside John, their shoulders touching. “I saw their god, he’s rather ridiculous with a pipe in his mouth and his other hand stretched out as if begging.” He demonstrates.

“Well,” John says, “I didn’t understand it when I heard about it a few months ago, and I don’t understand it now. _Maman_ told me about it, but she actually laughed and said she felt the movement would never get this far.” He moves enough so that he is leaning on his lover.

“You know I don’t like it much when I don’t know something, John.” Sherlock huffs and starts to get off the bed.

“No.” John tells him, grabbing at his shoulders with both hands. “I may be tired, and you need to rest. Stay here with me.”

At the end of it all, they will be thankful that Sherlock had the presence of mind to stay home that night and out of the forest.

*

_Sherlock thinks about that night, how John made love to him so sweetly, so reverently touched his face, his hands, his body and when his climax rolled over him with the power of a summer storm, he remembers almost being moved to tears. They curled up in each others’ arms and slept, unaware of the tragedy waiting to befall them from behind the thin wall of their home._

_The dragon settles to land; already the sun is descending towards the horizon and the sky is salmon and turquoise. As always, he can go home, though it is starting to feel less and less like home the more time he spends in the air. Sherlock will not lose John, he will_ always _come home for the night, no matter how much the forest calls to him. Somehow, someway, they are going to get through these forced separations together._


	4. For 1000 Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No.” John rushes to him only to be pushed back by one hand that is already changing into a claw.
> 
> “Get back!” Sherlock’s voice is still recognizably human. He forces himself up off the ground and towards the trees, running now on four legs. A massive, spike-tipped tail follows him.

**Chapter Four: For 1000 Years**

John wakes slowly, mind still cocooned in his memories. Awareness creeps in along with a great deal of warmth. The cottage is still, and for a few moments he really wants to simply burrow back down under the vermillion blanket and sleep the day away. Taking a deep breath, he stretches and reaches out, the back of his hand grazing gently against smooth skin; preternaturally hot skin. With a start, John realizes that their time may be growing short and opens his eyes to find his love’s icy green ones boring into him.

Wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s bare torso, John pulls him up and over so that the mage’s ear is directly over his heart.

“I’ve been thinking…” John begins as he slips his hand around the nape of Sherlock’s neck and down between his shoulder blades. He is secretly thrilled to find that although the skin is warm, it is still smooth. They have a little while, then.

Sherlock huffs against John, “I know.”

John frowns then tries again. “I am going to go to _Maman_ ’s today.” There is no need to over explain.

The mage stays quiet, his voice pitched low; John knows he is trying to hold onto the moment. “I will watch over you.”

John nods, his chin pressed against the top of Sherlock’s head, because really, there isn’t much else to say about it. He counts two heartbeats and then Sherlock is above him, their hips rocking and their mouths crushed together.

Today, however, it is not enough for Sherlock and he soon leaves John’s mouth in order to slide down his body, pressing his lips to each rib, belly button, each hip and finally, drawing it out enough to make John whimper, engulfs John’s hard shaft with his mouth. He plays John’s body like an instrument, pulling him taut as a bow string and then holding him right on the edge until he feels the first spasms in the muscles of his abdomen that tells him sunrise is only moments away. By the time John has recovered from a blinding orgasm, Sherlock is already gone and John is left in the bed clutching a well-worn set of black velvet robes.

For a while, John fights the urge to simply cover himself and let loose his sorrows. He knows he is stronger than that and mentally chastises himself. It is better to keep going over the memories of those days _before_ they were cursed…the answer is there, he knows it is. They made love that morning as they had so many other days, yet in John’s memories, everything was more sensual: Sherlock’s mouth was sweeter than ever, his eyes were brighter, his hair was softer, his scent was muskier…everything about that morning stands out: even the way he could feel the forest outside the windowless cottage waking up to seize the day…

*

Sherlock rolls John’s braid and then lets it slip between his fingers as John sits up to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He leans backwards a little to remind Sherlock that the hair really is attached and is not a leash. John keeps leaning until he is looking at Sherlock upside down. The mage smirks and cocks his head downward to place a soft kiss on John’s lips and then his chin, ending with a swipe of his tongue to the stubble there.

John laughs and pulls away while Sherlock stretches out across the straw-filled mattress naked, and looking like he has no plans on moving anytime soon. John walks around to him and kisses him one more time, softly. When they part, he gazes down at Sherlock’s reddened lips, slightly flushed cheeks and closed eyes and has to restrain himself from reaching out and touching those beautifully long, dark eyelashes.

“When was the last time I told you how beautiful you are?” John whispers.

Sherlock frowns and slowly opens his eyes. John doesn’t think he has ever seen that little motion as _erotic_ but it sure is now. The mage makes a deep purring noise in the back of his throat at the same time he offers his most smoldering expression; almost as if the very generic idea of _sex_ suddenly became something tangible and solid.

“Don’t do that.” John warns and steps back.

Sherlock has the audacity to laugh.

“We aren’t alone, sneaky mage.” John has turned his back on Sherlock now in order to pull on his tunic and trousers. “You know full well, however, that if we were you would not be smirking like that.”

Another short huff from the bed and then John finds himself embraced from behind by strong, lean arms.

“I just don’t want to let go today.” Sherlock mumbles into John’s ear.

It is endearing and John really wants to stay there, but they have to get Sally back to where she belongs. “As soon as we get back, Sherlock, I promise. We took Sally in and it is up to us,” here he stops because he can _feel_ Sherlock’s irritation. “Alright, _I_ took her in and it is up to _me_ to get her back to the people she came from. Does that sound better?”

“Yes.” Nibble. Lick.

“Sherlock, you have to stop. The sooner we get her out of our hands, the sooner we can get back to it.” John points in the general direction of the bed, which is most difficult because Sherlock’s hands have gone south of the border and those long fingers have snaked around him. John looks at the bedroom door, thinks about the injured woman on the other side of it, then back to the bed.

It really is a difficult choice.

In the end, though, he takes a deep, steadying breath and steps out of Sherlock’s embrace. “Come on.”

Sherlock huffs a little as he watches John do up the tie on his trousers. He pulls on his own, rebelliously leaving them hanging on his hips then gives John a cocky grin as he forgoes the shirt as well. John just shrugs; this is their _home_ , after all and Sally is not much more than a guest, regardless of how she got here.

John banks the low-burning fire and sees that Sally is still sleeping. He has already decided that the best way to travel with her is going to be to let Sherlock cast a spell, and he is pretty sure that is not going to go well. However, if he can convince her it is the most expedient way for them all to be shut of each other’s company, perhaps she will agree.

Within the hour, they have woken Sally, fed her a bite of breakfast and moved across over half of the forest at tree-top level. Sally clings to John as tightly as she is able, her face against the back of his brown robes, trembling. For his part, John tries hard to relax; he trusts the mage and knows he would never let anything happen to him.

They land easily on the other side of the ravine, Sherlock in the lead.

“I don’t want to come in too close, John, though I am unsure as to how we are going to get Sally to them.”

John thinks about that for a minute. “We have two choices, either I go and speak to them and bring someone back here or you…no. That’s not even a choice. Can you be civil for a little while?”

The mage looks down to where Sally is sitting on the ground and fidgets a little. He can sense that there is still something ‘off’ about her. “Maybe it will be better just to get her there the fastest way.”

John’s eyes move from Sherlock’s face to Sally and back. He knows that once Sherlock identifies himself as a mage that there is going to be problems; on the other hand, he would never think to ask Sherlock to hide himself…he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, the movement causing his braid to swing between his shoulder blades. Damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t: the Bamines are going to have a problem with the two of them anyway, regardless of the way they return her to her fold.

John picks Sally back up off the ground and notes that it is not much different that hefting a ragdoll: she is silent, almost limp, and her head lolls from one side to the other. He steps into Sherlock’s space; the mage is already pulling something out of his pouch and then they are moving again.

Sherlock, always being one for a bit of drama, drops them right in the center of the camp, directly in front of the largest tent in the vicinity. John has a few seconds to get his bearings before a group of men and women, all of them dressed as plainly as Sally, surround them. Sally gives no indication that she is even aware of them.

Strangely, the people say nothing; they stand around the newcomers in a circle, all eyes on John and then on Sherlock. Several of them gasp and step back, only widening the circle, though, not breaking it. John thinks it is one of the weirdest things he has ever seen.

“I bid you welcome!” A man’s voice booms out from behind them. John lets Sally down gently and she slumps against his leg. He is very much aware of how tense Sherlock has suddenly gone and begins to regret his decision to let them enter the camp this way.

The circle opens in front of them and then closes back as a tall, middle-aged man with a scraggly beard and a world-weary expression stops in front of John. He is clothed simply but around his neck are several thick ropes of gold. Several pendants adorn them, including a golden pipe and the leaf of a plant John does not recognize right off. The man’s expression is open but his brown eyes are shrewd, calculating. John is instantly on the alert.

“What have we here?” The man asks, moving his attention from the healer to the mage who have suddenly taken it upon themselves to appear in the middle of his flock. The people in the circle begin to hum quietly. The man turns towards two of the others and points. “You two: Dara and Randy, take her to the quiet tent.” A blond-haired man and a dark-haired woman step forward and gather Sally up between them. The circle opens and closes again.

“Now, with that out of the way, I think I can focus on what to do with you two.” John decides he does not like the tone in this stranger’s voice, so he goes for diplomacy.

“We found her down the ravine, where she was injured. We took her to our cottage and I dressed her wounds. She will probably not walk on that leg for a while yet.” As John speaks, the man frowns and tilts his head to the side as if he is studying an insect.

“We want nothing from you, only to return Sally to you. We would now take our leave.” Sherlock states, resting one broad hand on John’s shoulder to tell him not to move. John can feel Sherlock digging in his pouch and stays still to shield the mage. Everything about this place feels _wrong_ and he is all for getting away from there as soon as possible, even if that means flying _again_.

“No. I don’t think so.” The man snaps his fingers and four people move towards them, one on each of John’s and Sherlock’s arms. John spreads his feet apart as Sherlock mutters some arcane spell. The two men holding him hiss in pain and back away from the mage with their hands out as if to shield themselves from him.

“Don’t touch me.” Sherlock growls.

“Leader Anderson, we can’t touch him. Bamu gave us pain.” One of the men says in a hollow voice.

“I understand, my child. This is a perfect example of the sins our god has warned us about. They are _sofok_ , my children.” Anderson opens his arms wide as if showcasing John and Sherlock.

Sherlock has only heard the term once before in passing, but he’s got a pretty good idea what he means. “ _Sofok_ : lovers of science and magick.” He whispers into John’s ear.

John cannot hide the small shudder that Sherlock’s breath against the shell of his ear causes.

“Oh, look, my children! It also appears that they are lovers.” Anderson reports.

The eyes of the people standing around them go wide and they make some strange motions in the air with their hands. John decides he’s had enough so he pulls his arms out of the grip of the woman and the man holding him and leans back against Sherlock, hard as an indication that they need to get moving _now_.

It is a different spell this time, one that John does not recognize, but they are soon headed towards the tops of the trees again. Without warning, something goes very, very wrong.

It is as if they are being dragged back down towards the camp. Sherlock wraps an arm around John’s waist in order to anchor himself. John looks down to see Anderson peering up at them with a nasty expression on his face; he is holding something gold in his hand and there is an aura of white light all around them. John thinks that is sure a strange thing for someone who claims that magick is a sin to be using.

Stranger still how _strong_ Anderson’s spell appears to be. John is feeling quite useless being tugged between the Bamine leader and the mage; he figures his best bet is just to not make any sudden moves. Behind him, Sherlock is mumbling at full speed under his breath, obviously trying to break the spell; John can feel the mage’s struggle. They are getting closer to the ground with every second.

“John I will not let them hurt you.” Sherlock tells him in between words so lyrical that they could be a song. “Hold on!” John turns a little and fists his hands in the front of Sherlock’s robes.

There is a great ripping sound as Anderson’s hold on them is broken. When John looks down, the Bamine leader seems happy about it, rather than upset. He shouts something up towards them as Sherlock’s spell raises them out of reach; John only catches the last three words: _without is within._

Sherlock’s spell breaks with both of them crashing to the ground in front of the cottage. John tucks and rolls onto his feet with catlike grace; Sherlock does not move from where he is slumped. John knows well the signs of exhaustion: some spells take everything the mage has to give and then leaves them completely vulnerable. He rushes to the mage’s side and grabs his shoulders to turn him over. Sherlock’s eyes are glassy, for the moment seeing nothing. John hauls him up into a sitting position and rests the taller man between his legs where he leans against the rock wall of their home.

“Sherlock, I’m here. You got us out of there. I don’t know what that madman had in store for us, but you got us out. I’m here.” John cages Sherlock with his arms and holds tight; eventually Sherlock will relax into the embrace as he comes back to himself. John pulls on the gold belt that hold the mage’s robes together in order to loosen it up; he tugs the robes open enough for air to flow between the heavy material and Sherlock’s thin tunic. There is so much heat coming off of him that John is sure he is running a fever. He spreads his own legs wide in order to give Sherlock some air but does not let go of him. It is inconceivable that he would ever leave him this way. John watches the forest around them and allows himself to rest as their shadows grow longer. He dozes off and on for a while, too.

Finally, it is midday and Sherlock stirs. He moves to look John in the face and John can see very clearly that something is wrong. The healer rests one palm against Sherlock’s cheek and almost pulls his hand away from the heat that he finds there.

“Sherlock, what did he do?”

Sherlock’s eyes close. He takes a deep breath. “He cursed us.”

John does not think the situation is all that dire. After all, it is not the first time someone has taken offense to anything of the things that they are. “So?” He whispers as they lean their faces closer. Their lips touch slowly and John lets the kiss linger.

“What exactly did he say?” John asks when they part.

“He said that he would curse us for one thousand years, that we would stand together and apart; forever to be what is without is within.” He closes his eyes as he begins to tremble.

“What does that mean?” John is truly frightened now. Sherlock’s skin is reddening and the trembling is getting worse. “Sherlock?” He reaches out for him just as Sherlock draws back, his expression one of horrific pain.

Sherlock slumps to the ground and rolls to his side where his legs begin to draw up as the muscles spasm; his back arches and a thin, pitiful wail escapes his parted lips.

“No.” John rushes to him only to be pushed back by one hand that is already changing into a claw.

“Get back!” Sherlock’s voice is still recognizably human. He forces himself up off the ground and towards the trees, running now on four legs. A massive, spike-tipped tail follows him.

John drops to his knees right there in front of the cottage and is so overwhelmed with grief that all can do is sob.

*

When _Maman’s_ little house comes into view, John stops for a moment to gather his thoughts. The memory of seeing Sherlock the first time he changed into the massive red dragon is as painful now as it was that day. John has never felt so useless and alone in his entire life. It was only after he woke up with Sherlock curled around him the next morning that the mage was able to tell him everything, including the details of John’s own transformation into the little hedgehog; though it took several weeks for them to work out all the details of the curse.

John thinks about the next morning and perhaps it was elation that Sherlock was still alive and had come back to him that made John laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “A what?”

Sherlock smiles a little, despite the gravity of it all and draws John in close enough to nuzzle against his wheaten hair. “I know.” They are quiet then for a long time until the pain pulled Sherlock away and out into the woods.

The sound of an old wooden door creaking on its hinges pushes John back into current time. A petite elderly woman with white hair and wearing flowery robes stands on the threshold and offers John a kind smile. He gives her a jaunty little bow and climbs the two steps to the door with a bounce in his step. She opens her arms wide and he steps into them and hugs her as tightly as she does him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I'm doing this right. I wanted to use a different method to tell the story, mostly to see if I am capable of handling it. Thank you to everyone who has bookmarked, subscribed and is reading this story! You all make it worth the while to get it all out of my head!


	5. Wine From Your Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are always stronger together than apart, no matter which form we take.

**Chapter Five: (I would make) Wine From Your Tears**

“It is so wonderful to see you, John!” _Maman_ smiles as she lets go of the healer. The lilac-colored shawl she wears on her shoulders over her robes falls to one side a little. She adjusts it at the same time she gives him an appraising glance.

“And you, _Maman_.” John offers her the best grin he can under the circumstances.

The elderly woman makes her way towards her small kitchen, John in her wake.

“So, do I need to guess the reason for your visit, O Healer?” _Maman_ chuckles a little under her breath as she sets an already warm teapot on the table. John pulls out one of the two chairs and makes himself busy pouring two cups of tea.

“You already knew I was coming, so you must know why I am here.” John sips his cup and feels a slight tingle of warmth on his tongue from the _tindal_ plant she steeps alongside the normal tea leaves. It takes some of the edge off.

 _Maman_ Hudson watches John closely, knowing why he has come but giving him the space to get his troubles off of his chest.

“ _Maman_ , we have to end this curse. I know he wants to be with me, but each time the transformation takes more and more out of him. Eventually, he will have to choose.” John’s eyes drifted closed and he is leaning heavily against the back of the chair. He tugs on his sash and lets his robes fall open as _Maman’s_ house is always warm from the fire she keeps burning in the hearth year ‘round.

“What about you, pet?” Her brown eyes are filled with compassion.

“You know I want to be with him. If all I get is an hour out of every twenty-four, then that is what I will have to accept. Sherlock, though…” John opens his eyes, takes another sip from the tea he is on the verge of forgetting. “Sherlock is used to having more freedom, _Maman_ , and this is killing him. What can be done?”

The old woman adjusts her shawl, her fingers lingering on the mother-of-pearl button at the neck of it. “John, there are a couple of things that I could try. I’ve never encountered a spell quite like this in my long life,” she stops to give him a sly wink as if daring him to question her age.

“I understand. That reminds me of something else I wanted to ask you before. How in the world was that zealot able to even _use_ magick against us when he is so outspoken about the evils of it?”John rests his clasped hands together on the top of the table and gazes at her with a curious expression.

“John, my boy, I have asked myself that time and again. I think that there is more to Leader Anderson and his little group of followers than meets the eye.”

“ _You_ don’t know?” John asks.

 _Maman_ shakes her head. “No, I really don’t. I have used my scrying crystal and I have gotten as close to their camp as I dare. No one goes in and no one comes out, yet the population appears to be growing.”

“Really?” John has a hard time believing this.

“Yes. He is somehow gathering _believers_ to his side, using magick and managing to convince them that very thing is evil and destroying their lives!” The old woman slams a palm against the table, making the china shake.

“ _Maman_ , he’s a fool. We both know this isn’t the first time a new god has been created in order to help someone further their own agenda.”

“You are correct, pet. The problem is that we have no way of finding out just what that _agenda_ may be. Unless…” She tilts her head and regards John with an expression that tells him she has something to say that he may not like.

“You have an idea?” He is sitting up now, hands in his lap.

“I do.” She frowns.

“Oh.” John gets it. “You don’t mean?”

“Yes, yes I do.” She nods so rapidly that the shawl’s stretched-out button hole finally lets go and the whole thing slides to the floor.

John retrieves her shawl for her and drapes it over her shoulders. “Alright, I’ll do it. He won’t like it, but once he realizes that it’s for us, he will understand.”

“Thank you.” She smiles up at him. “Let me give you a couple of wards that you can use first thing tomorrow evening. Remember, though, they must be used prior to your own transformation. They will keep you grounded and keep you safe. Follow me, let me show you.”

John nods; glad to finally be doing something in regards to the curse. When he leaves her house an hour later, the graceful shadow of a large beast overhead follows him home.

*

It is again that quiet hour just before daybreak that finds the lovers wrapped up in one another.

“John, you need to tell me.”

John blinks a couple of times before he takes in that Sherlock’s nose is pressed tightly against his. He strokes the mage’s cheek and smiles when he sighs and closes his eyes. He lets his fingers trail through Sherlock’s hair and thinks that it needs to be trimmed soon in order to lessen the irritation of the transformation. For a second he allows his thumbs rest on the spot just over the mage’s ears where the horns will appear in a little while.

“We have time. You’ve got to tell me so I can be ready.”

John nods, forcing himself to pull away and concentrate. There will be no lovemaking this morning so that they will hopefully be able to at any time the rest of their lives.

“ _Maman_ gave me talismans, Sherlock. It can stave off my transformation for a little while in order to meet up with you at the _Bamine_ camp. We will have to work quickly, _m’omay_.” John tells him.

Sherlock takes in the way his lover’s blue eyes are glassy from unshed tears. This whole thing has been rough on both of them; he is most embarrassed to admit that sometimes it is rougher going back to his human shape every night that it is changing the next morning, regardless of the pain that he tells himself he does not feel. He lays his thumb against the side of John’s face and gently caresses right there where the tears will track.

“It will work.” He says. “She has never let us down.”

“I agree.” John states. They share a passionate kiss and reluctantly climb out of bed to face the world. Sherlock leaves the cottage and John spends the remainder of the day practicing every step that the old woman gave him to do. The most difficult part of this task is going to be staying in his mind once the hedgehog takes over John’s body. The little creature may be delightful, but his thought patterns are uncomplicated; as he has before, John sometimes wishes he could have been cursed into something a bit more self-aware, a wolf or maybe a griffon?

Far be it for him to dwell on such disturbing thoughts, however. He saw that expression on Sherlock’s face again this morning, just before the dragon appeared: a mixture of sadness and delight, perhaps a fond farewell. What he told _Maman_ Hudson is absolutely the truth, he knows Sherlock loves him but he knows the mage’s mind and how such a powerfully sentient being would capture his attention.

If it comes down to it, John will happily accept Sherlock’s choices; however, he firmly believes that the choice should be _given_ …and they never had the chance. He sighs as he runs through the given instructions in his head one last time, even as the twilight begins to fall. John hangs the copper talisman around his neck and starts out into the forest, Sherlock’s words to him that morning ringing in his ears: _We will always be stronger together than apart, no matter the form we take.  
_


	6. We Could Fly

**Chapter Six: We Could Fly**

John is thankful that he left a little earlier than he had originally planned because he seems to have forgotten exactly how far it is to the camp from their cottage, even scurrying through the underbrush on four legs. He manages to arrive in plenty of time to hear the first screams from the cultists as the dragon passes overhead. Small fires have been pitched all around the encampment and the big animal’s shadow is made even bigger by the low dancing flames.

John feels a shudder of revulsion in his tiny breast but manages to control the hedgehog’s instinct by repeating _Maman’s_ simplest words in his mind: _Get them out. Only attack the one. Go home._ He closes his eyes and waits.

In a few moments he is surrounded by the sound of people rushing through the brush and trees on the outskirts of the encampment. He does his best to herd the people out to a safe distance by squeaking loudly and nipping at their heel; for once lucky that this particular group is so accustomed to be herded like sheep that they will even take orders from a tiny forest creature. John does not take the time to linger over that particular revelation.

For the most part, his efforts pay off and the small group of people are comprised of ten plainly-dressed adult men and women as well as five or six children, ranging in age from about three to ten or so, are reasonably safe. After a time, he settles down on the ground on his belly with his spines erect and waits, trying hard to remain in his own mind.

*

The dragon makes one last pass over the encampment before he lowers himself to the ground near where John left his breeches and robes earlier in the day. After transforming, Sherlock dresses quickly, all the while listening closely for any sounds coming from inside the encampment. Hearing nothing unexpected, except for the nearby sounds of a small animal squeaking belligerently, he reaches into the pouch tied on the sash of his robes and taps into the magick that is strangely all around him.

Sherlock remains still with his eyes closed for a few moments, using the ley lines that surround the camp to bring the magick towards his body the way a violinist draws music from taut strings; he rushes his efforts slightly, feeling out of place as he always does after the dragon disappears for the night.

The mage moves through the now-deserted camp with ground-eating strides, ignoring most things in order to focus on the big tent beside the golden statue of paunchy Bamu. The fires are mostly extinguished now; the heavy beats of the wings of a low-flying dragon made enough wind to do just that. After the change, Sherlock’s eyes are very sensitive to the light as he retains enough of the dragon for a while to be able to see in dimness would virtually blind anyone else.

Off in the near distance is the sound of a child wailing; ignoring for now it in favor of sticking to the plan, Sherlock makes a note in the back of his mind to check it out as soon as possible. The tents he passes are all vacant, some left in a rush when the dragon swooped down out of the sky. Out of curiosity, he peeks into a few as he passes them: they are all the same inside: one bed with a blanket and pillows or one bed and a trundle similarly kitted out if there are children, a trunk of sorts and a single candle. He shakes his head and moves on, appalled, thinking that this sort of thing would upset John mightily.

Sherlock stops in front of the largest tent, where the leader of this group seems to be unaware that anything out of his immediate control is happening around him. The mage listens to the sounds of someone breathing and steps in through the flap into Anderson’s living space, which is quite frankly much more _livable_ than what the members of his _flock_ have to deal with.

The leader’s tent is in two parts: a large, furnished sitting room area and what appears to be a bedroom beyond a tall, wooden-framed screen set up in between. Sherlock huffs quietly, since there is no need to lose the art of surprise, and pushes the screen out of his way.

Leader Anderson is sleeping on his back, arms akimbo and one stockinged foot sticking out from beneath a thick, woolen blanket. Sherlock’s eyes flick about the bed chamber towards the head of the bed. Hanging there on the dark wood are the chains that Anderson wears around his neck. Sherlock remembers them too well and hesitates for a second to reach out and grab them, considering the type of magick they seem to be imbued with. His concerns do not last long, however, as he snatches them off the headboard.

Sherlock’s arm is over Anderson’s snoring face when two of the amulets hit against each other with a soft _tink_. Anderson sits up, his eyes snapping open when he realizes that he is not alone in the dark. Sherlock steps backward as Anderson’s hands grope between them, his fingers only missing his ridiculous jewelry by scant inches.

“Who’s there?” Anderson’s voice is scratchy, roughened by smoking as well as the wood smoke from the fires.

Sherlock backs up until he is standing behind the screen. He snaps his fingers and the candles behind him flicker to life like soldiers snapping to attention; he smirks at his own ability for the dramatic and listens to the other man scramble about in the dark, searching for his amulets.

“End this curse.” Sherlock says into the darkness.

There is silence for several heartbeats. “Ah.” Anderson says, moving closer to the mage.

Sherlock dips two fingers into his pouch and rubs them across one of the amulets. A faint glow comes from it and Anderson hisses between his teeth. He takes the hint and stops moving.

“What do you want?”

Sherlock considers this as he repeats the procedure until he has blocked most of the arcane energy from each of the amulets. “Charlatan.” He states into the tension between them.

“ _Sofok_.” Anderson hisses angrily.

“Fool.” Sherlock answers. This is getting tiresome very fast. “End the curse and I will let you live.”

Anderson laughs. It is a hollow, bark-like sound. “I knew not killing the two of you that day was for the best. It was worth letting you keep your worthless lives just for this.”

Sherlock only sees Anderson point his finger towards him because the flash of light that he conjures brightens up the inside of the tent.

Sherlock takes quick stock of his body, and, finding no injuries, pulls himself up off his back where he landed on the floor. “You’ll have to do better than _that_ to hurt me.”

This time there is no laughter from the cult leader, rather a hiss of rage. He foolishly charges the mage. Sherlock holds all three of Anderson’s amulets towards .The channels of magick that he closed a few moments ago burst open and Anderson is shoved backwards by his own spells when Sherlock says _Apoc._

The cult leader pushes himself up onto his elbows and Sherlock takes in the other man’s red face and practically bulging eyes. A line of sweat marks his forehead. “ _So ‘aya tsch’lick…_ ”

Sherlock, having barely moved since being knocked to the floor of the tent, merely holds up a hand and Anderson stops talking. He grabs at his throat and sputters.

“End.” Sherlock snaps his fingers. Tiny sparks dance across his nails. “This.” Snap. “Curse.” Snap.

“No!”Anderson shouts then manages to completely surprise Sherlock.

He transforms into a huge griffon and rushes the mage with his sharp, hooked beak wide open.

Sherlock sizes up the situation and counts to three then casually steps to the side. The griffon barrels straight through the side of the tent, knocking over the statute of Bamu as he tears through the canvas material. When he finally stops his headlong charge, he rears up on his leonine haunches and screams. The sound is ear-splitting but Sherlock does not flinch.

*

Out beyond the edges of the camp, the hedgehog begins to tremble violently when he hears the griffon screech. The John part of him wants to run to Sherlock’s side and fight, but the hedgehog wants to hide. Torn between the two choices, he is rooted to the spot.

Until he is not.

Suddenly, he is being lifted ever so gently by a hand slipped beneath his belly. He turns his head to see a soft but serious expression on _Maman’s_ face where she is holding him close enough to see into his eyes.

“Answer me, little one. Just for now, would you trade?”

Everything in the hedgehog’s universe circles down to this one second, this one piece of moment. Though he is unsure as to the exact meaning of her words, he grasps the concept that if he answers in the affirmative, he will be something to help his part. He turns his whole body around so that his little pointy nose is directly in front of _Maman’s_ face and squeaks once as loudly as he can.

 _Maman_ closes her eyes and puts her lips together. The last thing John knows is that he is floating.

*

The griffon drops down onto its bird-like forefeet and lowers its head. Sherlock takes a step backward but soon gives it up as a bad job because there really is nowhere to go. He takes a deep breath and swings the amulets around his head like a lasso. Even if they won’t hurt the griffon, they might possibly deflect that nasty beak in order to buy the mage a few more minutes to come up with something more effective.

Sherlock does not have to, though, because as the griffon charges, his head swims and he falls to the ground. The all-too-familiar pain of the transformation takes over, blocking out all other sensations; it is faster this time, and as the griffon is turning around to charge again, the red dragon spreads his wings and makes for the air. The moon is bright above the trees, marking him as much a target as it allows him to see his enemy leaping into the air and screeching.

The dragon raises his enormous body higher and higher, wings stretched wide. He makes a large circle around the griffon, who cannot quite make the altitude the dragon is able. He shakes his horned head back and forth and dives straight at the griffon. Sherlock finds himself conscious in the body of the dragon and enjoys the feeling of power that comes with being not only a top predator, but an animal that can be killed by very little. He throws his head back and answers the griffon’s scream with a loud, deep growl of his own that is followed by a long blast of flame.

When the two animals collide in mid-air, it is the griffon, with his front talons sunk into the dragon’s breast that seems to have the upper hand. Only for an instant, however, because the dragon still has the amulets and their chains grasped in one claw; as they struggle to remain airborne, the dragon manages to drop the chains around the griffon’s neck. He has no power to speak the arcane words he needs and so he thinks them, over and over until a flash of light against the gold shows his success.

The griffon’s talons are starting to tear at his scales. He maneuvers them until they are flying vertically, higher and higher until the griffon can scarcely breathe. Smoke is pouring from the chains around the griffon’s neck and the animal is struggling to get loose—one long claw is lodged in the scales of the dragon’s breast, in the spot where his human heart would be. Blood the color of red velvet has begun to pour from the wound. The dragon snaps at the griffon’s head, a half-hearted attempt to dislodge him, but it doesn’t work because the dragon must concentrate on not following out of the air.

Finally, the dragon is exhausted with the struggle. He snaps his jaws over the head of the griffon and folds his wings against his back. The part of his mind that still belongs to Sherlock whispers goodbye and fervently hopes that this time the curse will be broken.

*

The group of _Bamines_ all fall to their knees and start chanting some nonsensical prayers as a naked man appears where a hedgehog had been moments before.

John stands up from the ground in time to see the warring titans fall from the sky, their bodies twisting in silhouette against the moon. He reaches for the old woman’s hand and together they shout, “No!”


	7. We All Have Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Gravy, this has been so much fun to write! I think I'm a little in love with these two, so don't be surprised if they reappear at some point. Thank you all for reading, I hope my silly story has made your day just a wee bit brighter :D

**Chapter Seven: We All Have Wings (But some of us don't know why)**

The wheel of time is unbroken: nights turn into days and days as seamlessly slight back into nights. Light and dark, dark and light; the way things have always been and the way things will always be.

One instant, Sherlock is a mage in control of an exquisite, fire-breathing leviathan fighting for its life and then falling from the zenith…the next he is here, waking up in the light of a new day well past high noon. He raises his head and blearily takes in the room. The decorations are unfamiliar as is the scent that permeates the air; a groan escapes him and he falls back against the soft down-stuffed pillow. He closes his eyes to almost immediately open them again.

Sherlock holds one bare arm out so that he can see his fingers, his wrist, his forearm; he runs the palm of the other hand down his arm, cradles his own fingers. The skin is normal temperature and he smiles a little, happy to be back to himself despite the overwhelming feeling of loss that is slowly creeping over him.

Now he takes the time to peer around the room more carefully, noting several miscellaneous containers filled with both dried and fresh flowers that have been set around in attempt to make the place a bit cheerier. Unlike their cottage, this room has a small window partially blocked by worn muslin curtains that are pushed towards him as air from outside wafts through the open sash. John should be here soon, then.

John!

Sherlock shoves himself up quickly on both hands, yanks back the blanket and is through the doorway and standing in the center of _Maman’s_ cluttered and homey hut before he blinks twice. He moves so fast that the woman is startled where she stands with her back towards the bedroom, stirring something in a large pot.

“Ah. My _ortor_ , you almost made this old heart give out!” She chastises him but turns towards where he stands and smiles, never taking her hand from the long wooden spoon she is using to stir whatever it is that she is cooking. _Maman_ goes back to her stirring, saying, “Clothes, Sherlock, clothes. You have human skin now so please act a bit civilized.”

The mage actually blushes and returns to the bedroom where he finds a clean pair of tan breeches and a soft white tunic laid out for him on one of the assorted tables that line the small room. “ _Maman, col es m’omay_?”

The old woman chuckles warmly. She never gets to speak her native tongue and always feels a little thrill that the orphan boy she raised into such a fine man remembers so much of it. _Maman_ Hudson takes a small sip from the spoon then bangs it against the side of the pot before moving the pot from the fire to her dining table. It is so heavy that the tabletop wobbles a little until she rests the heels of her hand against it.

“John _es faunren_.”

“Gardening? How can he be gardening at a time like this?” Sherlock asks, switching back to the Common tongue effortlessly.

It takes _Maman_ a second to catch up. “No, silly boy, he didn’t leave you.” She grabs Sherlock’s arm as he makes to move past her. “Stand still, you need feeding up.”

Sherlock doesn’t move.

“No, you know what, reach up there and take down some bowls; your hedgehog should be in any minute now.” _Maman_ gestures towards one of the taller cabinets then points at a basket beneath it to show him where she keeps the eating utensils.

“Such a good boy,” she pats his arms, and then practically shoves him into a chair. She takes the seat across from him, grunting a little as she settles her old bones into it. “Go on, dish it out, I need to talk to you about John.”

Sherlock almost drops the bowl he is ladling the fragrant stew from the pot into. He did not miss the fact that she called John a _hedgehog_ but he was under the impression (as well as fervently hoping) that it has simply become a term of endearment for the other man she has basically adopted as another son. Trying hard to ignore the pounding of his heart he gives her his full attention.

Just then the front door opens and John strides across the room, beaming at the both of them. He gives _Maman_ a one-armed hug and then leans over to kiss Sherlock on the forehead. Sherlock forgets to breathe.

“Sherlock, look at me. I’m alright, its fine. Just a little hard to get used to …” John loses his train of that as he self-consciously runs a hand over the short blonde spikes that now make up his head.

Sherlock plays with the braid still hanging over John’s shoulder, noting how each strand of hair feels exactly like the little hedgehog’s quills. When he runs the flat of a broad palm over the top of John’s head where John is almost bowing to present to him, a laugh is pulled right out of his throat.

The healer pulls back a little, again letting his fingers drift through the spikes that are no longer wheaten-colored, but pure white. None of it matters to Sherlock, however, who grips each of John’s hips and reels the man into him. He shoves his face right against John’s chest and sighs, his heart taking wing and soaring above the rooftop, above the trees and right into the clouds.

 _Maman_ giggles like a school girl and goes about eating her soup with an expression of fond amusement.

 

 

> **Never Tear Us Apart**
> 
> Don't ask me  
>  What you know is true  
>  Don't have to tell you  
>  I love your precious heart  
>   
>  I  
>  I was standing  
>  You were there  
>  Two worlds collided  
>  And they could never tear us apart  
>   
>  We could live  
>  For a thousand years  
>  But if I hurt you  
>  I'd make wine from your tears  
>   
>  I told you  
>  That we could fly  
>  'Cause we all have wings  
>  But some of us don't know why

© INXS (Writer(s): Andrew Farriss, Michael Hutchence)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Col es m’omay?-where is my lover (used here to informally mean ‘partner’)  
> John es faunren. –John is working with the plants (gardening.)


End file.
